The breeze coerces my body forward, as if urging me to jump. To take the leap and plunge to my death. You won't regret it.
That little intrusive thought lingers. Somehow, I feel like crashing into sharp rocks would be regrettable, to say the least.
What if I don't die right away?
What if I miraculously survive the fall, and I'm forced to lie there, broken and bloody, until my body finally gives out?
Or what if my body refuses to give out and I'm forced to live the rest of my life as a vegetable?
All regrettable.
I'm snapped out of my musings when I hear a throat clear.
"Ma'am?"
I turn my head to see a tall, older man with a softness about him that almost comforts me. His grey, thinning hair is matted to his forehead from sweat, and his clothes are stained with dirt and gunk.
His eyes bounce between me and the edge of the cliff I'm standing on, emanating nervous energy. He thinks I'm going to jump. And as I continue to just stare at him, I realize I'm not giving him any reason to think otherwise.
Still, I don't move.
"We're heading out for the night," the man informs me.
He and his crew have been rebuilding my front porch all day, giving it the facelift it so desperately needed.
While also ensuring that my foot isn't going to go through the rotted wood and probably give me sepsis.
He looks me up and down, his brow lowering as his concern seems to deepen.
The breeze blows hard, swirling around us and stirring up my hair. I claw the strands away to see that he's still eyeing me closely. When I was younger, Nana refused to let me near the cliff. It's only a good fifty feet from the manor. The view is breathtaking, especially when the sun sets. But at night, it's impossible to see where the cliff's edge is without a flashlight.
Currently, the sun is descending into the horizon, casting this lonely piece of land in dark shadows.
I'm standing three feet away from danger, life and death separated by a rocky edge. Soon, it will disappear.
And if I'm not careful—I will, too.
"You okay, miss?" he asks, taking a single step forward.
Instinctively, I take a step back—towards the cliff's edge.
The man's brown eyes widen into saucers, and he immediately halts and puts up his hands, as if he's trying to keep me from going over with the Force. He was just trying to help, not scare me. And I've gone and scared the shit out of him in return.
I suppose I have been this whole time.
I look back, my heart lodging in my throat when I see just how close I was to stepping off.
All I can feel in that moment is pure terror. And just like clockwork, the familiar heady feeling settles low in my stomach, like water circling down a drain.
Something is clearly wrong with me.
Sheepishly, I take a few steps away from the cliff and shoot him an apologetic look.
I'm on edge.
Red roses appear everywhere I go now. It's been three weeks since I found the whiskey glass and rose on my countertop.
After Daya left, I took a long, hot shower and during that time, I decided that I need to start making reports. Leaving some type of evidence behind. That way if I turn up dead or missing, they'll know exactly why.
By the time I got out of the shower, the empty cup with plucked petals was gone, depleting me of any warmth in my body.
I had immediately called the police that night. They humored me with a report, but they told me finding a rose in odd places
around my house isn't sufficient evidence for them to do anything.
Ever since then, the incidences have escalated. I'm not sure of the exact moment I realized I had a stalker, but it's been madeclear that's exactly what's been happening for the past three weeks.
I'll get into my car to go to my favorite coffee shop to write and waiting for me on my seat is a red rose.
Inside a car that has been locked, and still was when I had approached.
There's never a note attached. Never any type of communication other than the red roses with clipped thorns.
My paranoia only heightened when renovations started two weeks ago. Numerous people have been in and out as they repair and replace the bones of the house. Electricians, plumbers, construction workers, and landscapers have all been here.
I've replaced every single window in Parsons Manor and installed brand new locks on every single door, but just as I
suspected, it doesn't make a difference.
They always find a way in.
Any of the people coming through my house could be them.
Admittedly, I've interrogated a few of the poor workers just to see if they acted suspiciously, but they all looked at me like I was asking them if they could sell me some crack.
"Ma'am?" the man prompts again.
I shake my head—a sad attempt at focusing back on the conversation.
"I'm so sorry, I'm just really out of it,"
I rush out, waving my hands out in front of me in a placating gesture.
I feel like an asshole for my behavior.
Had I'd fallen, the poor guy probably would've blamed himself.
The earth could've easily given out on me, or I could've just taken too large of a step and plummeted to my death just because he was concerned.
He would've lived the rest of his life with guilt, and who knows what would have become of him because of it.
"S'kay," he says, still eyeing me with a pinch of wariness.
He hikes his thumb over his shoulder. "Well, we'll be back tomorrow to put the railing up."
I nod, twirling my fingers together.
"Thank you," I respond lightly.
The second he leaves, I'll cry about how I almost ruined his life, and even though he seems incredibly nice, I can tell he wantsnothing more than to just leave. But his kindness perseveres. Or that insistent need to make sure he walks away guilt-free.
"You need me to call anyone?"
I smile and shake my head. "I know that looked bad, but I promise I wasn't going to jump."
His shoulders fall an inch, and his face smooths out in relief.
"Good," he says, nodding.
He starts to turn but then stops.
"Oh, there's a bouquet of roses waiting out there for you."
My heart stops for a solid five seconds before it kicks into high gear and climbs its way up my throat.
"W-what? From who?"
He shrugs a shoulder. "I don't know.
They were there when we came back from lunch earlier. Forgot about 'em until just now. I can go grab the—"
"That's okay!" I cut in hastily.
His teeth click shut, and another weird look passes on his face. This man definitely thinks I'm a nutcase.
He nods again with one last concerned glance before turning and walking back towards the front of the manor.
Releasing a weighted sigh, I wait until he disappears from view before making my own way back.
It would've felt weird walking behind him—two people heading in the same direction that have no interest in talking to each other.
Gives me the heebie jeebies.
When I make my way around to the front of the house, I first stop to admire how beautiful the new black porch looks. The exterior has been refreshened—still all black, but with brand new siding and fresh paint. I kept the vines and cleaned the gargoyles, and though the stone is chipped and weathered, it only adds character to the haunting manor. Seems my taste isn't any more rainbows and sunshine than my predecessors.
Then my eyes jump to the bouquet of red flowers perched against the door.
It looks like they were placed there by one of the crew members—assuming they didn't want to enter my house without my permission.
My eyes skirt the property.
The sun's rays are nearly gone, and I can't see a damn thing five feet past the tree line. If someone isbeyond that point, they could be watching me, and I would be none the wiser.
Feeling a tad more urgent, I scoop up the roses, rush inside, slam the door, and lock it. Nestled neatly in the bouquet is a single
black card.
From my view, I can see some type of gold calligraphy scrawled across it.
My eyes widen, wary of the note. It'll be the first real communication I've gotten from the stalker.
Part of me has been waiting anxiously for it, hoping they'll tell me what they want from me.
And now that it's here, I want to tear it to pieces and live in blissful ignorance.
Screw it, I'll probably die from regret and curiosity if I don't read it.
Plucking the card out with shaking hands, I open it and read:
I'll be seeing you soon, little mouse.
Okay, I could've lived without seeing this.
I mean, little mouse?
This is obviously a man stalking me, and he must be cracked in the fucking head.
Clearly, he is.
Disgusted, I slide my phone from my back pocket and call the police.
I really don't want to deal with them tonight, but I need to report this.
I'm not naïve enough to think they'll save me from the shadow that's attached itself to me, but I'll be damned if I become some unsolved mystery if I die.
A gentle, but firm knock vibrates my front door. It's almost becoming an instinct for my heart to skip a few beats whenever I hear any noise in the manor.
Surely, that can't be healthy.
Maybe I'll eat some Cheerios.
They say those are good for the heart, right?I walk over to the window next to the door, peeking through the curtain to see who it is.
I groan. I want to be relieved that it's not some creepy ass dude outside my door, holding a gun and spouting about how if he can't have me, nobody can. Really, I do.
So all I am is a little sad that it's not the persistent shadow ready to end my life.
With a heavy sigh, I swing open the door and greet Sarina Reilly—my mother. Her blonde hair is tucked tightly into a chignon, pink lipstick painted on her thin lips, and icy blue eyes.
She's so prim and proper, and I'm so… not. Where she holds herself with regality and grace, I have a terrible habit of slumping and sitting with my legs open.
"To what do I owe the pleasure, Mom?" I ask dryly.
She sniffs, unimpressed with my attitude.
"It's cold out here. Aren't you going to invite me in?" she snips, waving an impatient hand for me to move.
When I reluctantly step aside, she pushes past me, a wisp of her Chanel perfume trailing in her wake. I cringe at the smell.
My dear mother looks around the manor, distaste evident on her pinched face.
She grew up in this gothic house, and the darkness of the interior must've influenced the insides of her heart.
"You're going to get wrinkles if you keep looking at the house like that," I deadpan, shutting the door and brushing past her.
She huffs at me, her heels clicking against the checkered tiles as she makes her way to the couch.
The fire is roaring, and the lights are dim, creating a cozy atmosphere. It'll start raining soon, and I really hope she leaves by then so I can enjoy my night in with a book and the sound of thunder in peace.
Mom sits daintily on the couch, her butt perched on the very edge.
If I poke her, she'll fall off.
"Always a pleasure, Adeline," she sighs, her tone high and mighty, as if it's just another day of her being the bigger person.
That sigh.
The backdrop to my entire childhood. It's filled with disappointment and met expectations all at once. I never disappoint in disappointing her, I guess.
"Why are you here?" I ask, getting straight to the point.
"Can't I come visit my daughter?" she asks with an edge of bitterness in her tone.
Mom and I were never close.
She was bitter because Nana and I were, resulting in me choosing her over Mom often. In arguments and where I spent most of my time growing up.
In return, I harbored resentment because I was made to feel like I couldn't choose her. Because if I did, I would only be rewarded with another underhanded comment about eating another cookie I can't afford.
She'd complain my ass would get too fat, but little did she know, that's exactly what I wanted.
To this day, the woman still doesn't understand why I don't particularly like her.
"Are you here to try and convince me that I'm wasting my life away in an old house?"
I query, throwing myself into the rocking chair by the window and propping my feet up on the stool.
The same one my great-grandmother and I tend to get stalked in.
Sitting in this chair forces my thoughts back to last night, the creepy note and answering all of two questions from the police officer before he said he'd hold on to it for evidence and make a report.
Waste of time, but at least the police will know that it was foul play if I end up dead in a ditch somewhere.
"I have an open house today in town. I figured I'd stop by and see you beforehand."
Ah. That explains it.
My mom wouldn't drive an hour to come to visit me just to have a tea party and play nice. She was in town, so she decided to come lecture me.
"Do you want to know why Parsons Manor deserves to be torn down, Adeline?" she asks, her tone dripping with condescension.
She sounds like she's about to school me, and suddenly I feel very wary.
"Why?" I ask quietly.
"Because a lot of people died in this house."
"You mean the five construction workers in the fire?"
I ask, recalling the story Nana told me when I was a child about Parsons Manor catching fire and killing five men.
They had to tear down the charred bones and restart. But the ghosts of those men still linger—I just know it.
"Yes, but not just them."
She stares at me hard while my hesitance worsens.
I turn to look out the window beside me, contemplating if I should just make her leave now. She's going to tell me something life-changing, and I'm not sure I want to hear it.
"Then who else?" I finally ask, my eyes glued to Mom's shiny black Lexus parked outside.
Schmancy.
So schmancy that it almost seems mocking. A stark difference to this old house, as if to say I'm better than you.
Being a real estate agent pays well. When I was born, she wanted to be a stay-at-home mom. But considering the turmoil of our relationship as I got older, that notion soured, so she threw herself into becoming one of the top sellers in Washington. Honestly, I'm proud of her accomplishments. I just wish she felt the same about mine.
"Your great-grandmother, Gigi," she declares, pulling me out of my thoughts.
My head snaps towards her, shock curling through me. "Not only did she die in this house, Addie, but she was murdered here."
I couldn't keep my mouth from dropping open if I tried.
I shoot upward, the rocking chair slamming harshly against the wall behind me.
"She did not," I deny. But if my mother is anything, it's not a liar. Nana spoke about Gigi often. Her mother was her entire world.
But she definitely never told me Gigi was murdered.
I had only asked once about her death, and Nana only said that she died too soon. Nana closed down after that and refused to say anything more.
At the time, I was too young to give it much thought. I just assumed she was still hurting and left it at that. It hadn't occurred to me that Gigi's death was tragic.
She sighs. "That's why your Nana always had this weird…obsession with the manor. She was young when it happened.
Her father, John, no longer wanted anything to do with this place, but Nana threw the world's biggest temper tantrum and forced him tostay in the house his wife was murdered in."
She glances at me, noting the droll look on my face from her insult. "Those were my grandpa's words, not mine. At least about the temper tantrum. Anyway, the second she was old enough, he gave it to her and moved out, and she lived on in the manor, as you already know."
I face the window again, the beginnings of the storm pattering against the glass.
In a few minutes, it'll be a downpour. Thunder rolls, building to a crescendo before a loud crack shakes the foundations of the house.
It matches my mood perfectly.
"Do you have anything to say?" she pushes, her eyes boring a hole into the side of my head.
I shake my head soundlessly, scrambling for a response.
My brain is numb to coherent thoughts.
There are no words.
Absolutely no words to describe the utter disbelief I'm feeling.
She sighs again, this time softer and filled with… I don't know, empathy?
Mom may not be a liar, but she's also never been empathetic, either.
"My dad never felt comfortable raising me here, but your Nana insisted. She loved Gigi, and she wasn't capable of letting this house go. It's cursed. I don't want to see you do the same thing—grow attached to a house just because you loved your Nana."
I suck my bottom lip between my teeth, biting hard as another crack of thunder tears through the atmosphere.
Was Gigi killed by her stalker?
The man she called a visitor, who would come into her home and do unspeakable things.
Things that she tried not to want—but did.
Was it him? Was he playing her all along, sensing her growing attraction for him, despite what he was doing and took advantage?
It's the only thing that makes sense.
I turn back to her. "Do they know who did it—who killed Gigi?"
Mom shakes her head, her lips tightening into a thin line, causing the pink lipstick to crack.
Those cracks extend far deeper than her lipstick. She's also been broken, though I could never figure out why."No, it still goes unsolved to this day. They didn't have sufficient evidence, and back then, it was easier to get away with things than it is now, Addie. Some thought it was my grandfather, but I know he'd never do such a thing. He loved her dearly."
Unsolved. My great-grandmother was murdered in this very house, and no one ever caught the killer.
Dread sinks into my stomach like a stone in a lake.
I'm sure I know who killed her, but I don't want to open my mouth and say so until I'm absolutely positive.
"Where was she murdered?" I ask, my voice subdued.
"In her bedroom. Which disturbingly became your Nana's bedroom."
She pauses for a beat before muttering, "And now.yours, I'm sure."
She's not wrong.
I took over Nana's old bedroom, and though it's been fully renovated, I still kept the chest at the end of the bed and the full-length ornate mirror propped in the corner of the room.
Things that were passed down from Gigi.
The bed is no more, having bought my own. But the same four walls that housed a horrific murder are the same four walls I sleep in at night.
It's chilling—a little creepy.
But to Mom's dismay, it's not enough to get me to move out. Or even change rooms.
If that makes me a freak, then I would only fit in with the family.
Gigi fell in love with her stalker.
The very man who must've killed her eventually.
And now, I have one of my very own.
The only silver lining is that I would never be so stupid to fall in love with him.
Mom stands, a signal that she's leaving. Her heels click, clack off the checkered tile as she slowly walks towards the entrance.
She gives me one last look.
"I hope you make the right decision and leave this place, Addie. It's… dangerous here."
Her staccato footsteps fade as the door softly closes behind her.
I watch her car disappear down the mile-long driveway, leaving me all alone in this big, cursed house.
Suddenly, my stalker's last words are much more ominous now.
I'll be seeing you soon, little mouse.